From winter, plague, and pestilence, good Lord, deliver us

The Sun shineth as well on the good as the bad: God from on high beholdeth all the workers of iniquity, as well as the upright of heart.

Dreaming is no other than groaning, while sleep our surgeon hath us in cure.

What is Logicke but the highe waie to wrangling, contayning in it a world of bibble babble. Neede we anie of your Greeke, Latine, Hebrue, or anie such gibbrige, when wee have the word of God in English?

Evermore mayst thou be canonized as the Nonparreille of impious epistlers.

O, 'tis a precious apophthegmatical pedant who will find matter enough to dilate a whole day of the first invention of “Fy, fa, fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman.”

A dream is nothing else but the echo of our conceits in the day.